


Sunlight

by crorvid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Multi, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crorvid/pseuds/crorvid
Summary: Angels don't touch.Not even if they really want to.





	Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> I read a lot of posts about touch-starved Crowley and then thought about how stark Heaven was and was immediately possessed to write about touch-starved Aziraphale.

Holy light, much like the light from fluorescent bulbs, is harsh and impersonal. This, combined with the stark white walls and the inextricable connection to death, makes Heaven feel rather more like a hospital than most humans would like to imagine. 

Heaven is Good, but is not warm. Much in the same way, angels are Good, but are not kind. Goodness, as far as Heaven is concerned, has nothing to do with mercy or comfort. Goodness means Doing What Must Be Done, No Matter The Consequences. Countless deaths in the name of what is Good. Calculated acts, lending weight to moral arguments, all bathed in cold white light.

Sunlight, for all its brightness and beating intensity, at least carries a warmth. Perhaps that explains why Aziraphale always felt a certain solace in St. James’ Park on a summer day feeding ducks with Crowley that he never felt when he reported back to Head Office.

Of course, Aziraphale was not like other angels. He never had been. He had always been kind, since the beginning, since he handed a flaming sword to a man named Adam and told him to  _ be careful, keep her safe, it’s getting dark, it’s getting cold. _

Thousands of years passed and he continued to be different. He got a little too used to being on Earth, feeling the sun on his skin and wine on his tongue and the presence of another by his side, always close, never touching.

_ Never  _ touching. 

He may have surrounded himself with soft velvet waistcoats and yellowed old books and cosy armchairs and crackling fireplaces, but he could never quite shake the frigidity of Heaven. 

Aziraphale might not have been like other angels, but he still was one. And angels didn’t touch.

Not even when their adversary gave a smug sort of grin that practically begged for a swat to the shoulder. Not even when their co-conspirator suggested an Arrangement that ought to be sealed with a handshake. Not even when their best friend thought they were dead, forever, and looked as though he could quite use a hug.

Angels didn’t touch.

But you couldn’t spend six thousand years alongside another being without ever accidentally brushing hands, or shoulders, or feet. It happened, sometimes, and whenever it did Aziraphale would catalogue it neatly into a part of his brain that he kept firmly locked up with the kind of security system that made Fort Knox look like a note left on one’s lunch in the break room fridge that relies on nothing more than a guilt trip and a polite request to keep its contents safe. 

Aziraphale had tried sleeping, once. He never took to it the way that Crowley did. He told him that it was because Virtue is ever-vigilant, which was a much more convenient explanation than divulging that, the one time he had tried, he had found that some treacherous part of his subconscious had breached the catalogue of touches and sent a thousand memories tumbling forth in an avalanche that made his bones positively ache. Lying in his bed, he felt a tightness in his chest as though his ribs were eating his heart and he had never felt more alone and all he wanted in the world was to be  _ touched _ and that thought scared him because  _ angels don’t touch. _ And so he got up, made himself a cup of tea, and decided that he wasn’t going to try that again.

And he didn’t. Time passed and hands brushed and thoughts were locked away and then the world almost ended and then it didn’t end and he found himself on a park bench passing a bottle of wine back and forth and then boarding a bus with no destination in mind beyond an invitation to stay with Crowley that he hadn’t yet decided if he could possibly accept. He wanted to. Of course he wanted to. But he had gotten quite good at ignoring what he wanted.

In fact, he had just made up his mind that he would simply find a hotel room for the night and figure things out in the morning when he felt a hand on his and he forgot how to breathe and also how to think.

He looked down. It was Crowley’s hand, of course. Resting gently on top of his own. He looked up at Crowley, who was staring out the window as though he could see anything in the darkness, resolutely avoiding looking at the angel sitting next to him. He would have looked completely nonchalant to anyone but Aziraphale, who knew him well enough to know that every nerve in his body was absolutely screaming. Still unbreathing, still unthinking, he rotated his wrist so that their palms were facing. Crowley’s fingers twitched and then, with an impressive level of confidence, interlaced with Aziraphale’s. 

He supposed that it might be a bit late to go about finding a hotel, anyway. 

\---

They finished the bottle of wine on the walk from the bus stop to Crowley’s flat. Crowley held the door. Aziraphale thanked him with a smile, one of the small soft ones he didn’t give anyone else. 

The smile faded when he took in the space around him.

Crowley’s flat was stark. It was minimalist. It was empty. It was, in that way, something like Heaven, an irony that would have been amusing if it didn’t make Aziraphale’s skin feel like ice.

But, as he stood frozen, it was as though his eyes adjusted to the dark. He began to notice things, little personal touches unlike anything that could be found in Heaven. The art on the walls. The Crowley-shaped indent on the couch. The statue of an angel and a demon… wrestling? Oh, dear.

Taking a few steps forward, he noticed a final detail that made his skin thaw and then quickly heat far past that point. A statue of an eagle. A very familiar statue, from a very particular church, that stood behind him during a very fateful hand brush that had taken far more effort to lock away than any other.

Crowley had taken the statue that watched Aziraphale fall in love with him.

Turning around, he saw Crowley standing uncertainly by the door, sunglasses still on. That wouldn’t do. This was his home. He should feel comfortable.

Aziraphale walked over to him. He reached up, slowly, and took off the sunglasses, folding them and placing them gingerly on the table by the door next to the keys to the Bentley, which Crowley technically didn’t need but loved swinging around his finger to punctuate his points.

When he looked back up at Crowley, he saw him take a deep breath and prepare to feign some slight semblance of normalcy, even though the world had almost ended and nothing would ever be the same. Aziraphale had to admire the effort.

“So, what do you think?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I like it. It’s very…” He glanced back at the statue. “You.”

Crowley looked as though he didn’t know quite what to do with that. But he was nothing if not hospitable, and clever enough to realize that Aziraphale was paying him a compliment even if he couldn’t fully understand it yet. 

“More wine?”

“Please.”

He sauntered to the kitchen. Aziraphale watched him go and thought about how his hand had felt pressed against his. He would very much like to feel it again, his bony fingers and smooth skin. He sat down on the couch as Crowley returned with a bottle and two glasses.

Crowley sprawled next to him, pouring a helping for Aziraphale and then one for himself. Aziraphale watched his hands. He sipped his wine and set the glass primly down on the coffee table, on a coaster that hadn’t been there a moment ago, before folding his hands in his lap.

“Thank you for letting me stay here.”

Crowley swallowed his mouthful, placing the glass down on the floor. 

“‘Course.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice that both of them had ensured that their hands were empty. Their glasses were out of the way, reachable but placed on steady, flat surfaces. 

“And—” Crowley was staring, now. Aziraphale didn’t know that he was quite done formulating this sentence yet, but it had taken matters into its own hands. “Thank you for holding my hand.”

Crowley’s mouth twitched. “No need to thank me, angel.”

“Let me return the favor, then.”

Aziraphale unclasped his hands and extended one ever so slightly toward Crowley, who blinked at him before reaching for it. He paused, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale, silently questioning. Aziraphale nodded and Crowley took his hand, lacing their fingers together and tugging slightly so that their hands rested on his knee. 

He traced his thumb over Aziraphale’s, so gently, the motion barely a whisper, and Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered closed. He felt the couch shift as Crowley slowly sat up, and then his eyes flew open again as he felt a brush of lips over his knuckles.

Crowley was staring at him again. His eyes were almost glowing with a mixture of desperation and—Aziraphale’s heart caught in his throat—fear. Crowley was terrified.

“Is… this alright?”

Aziraphale gave what he hoped was a suitably reassuring smile.

“Better than alright, my dear.”

Crowley closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to their clasped hands. He inhaled deeply, keeping his eyes tightly shut as he asked, “You’ll tell me if it’s not, right?”

“Of course I will.”

“Promise?” He was so earnest. And still so  _ scared. _

Aziraphale couldn’t understand why. “I promise.” Crowley had always been an anxious creature, but not like this. “My dear, is something the matter?”

Crowley’s eyes opened and met Aziraphale’s. The intensity of his gaze made his heart stutter.

“Don’t want to go too fast for you.”

_ Oh. _

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand.

“It’s been a long time.”

Crowley brought his other hand up to touch Aziraphale’s jaw and his fingertips felt like fire. They were trembling. Aziraphale found it quite endearing. Crowley’s eyes darted across his face, searching for any signals telling him to slow down and only finding signals telling him to  _ please keep going. _

The angel tilted his head to press a soft kiss to Crowley’s palm and he hissed out a breath, staring at Aziraphale’s mouth. He dragged his gaze up to meet his eyes as his fingers slid feather-light up, behind his ear, threading into his hair, and the fire spread through Aziraphale’s whole body as his lips parted ever so slightly. He was so  _ gentle. _

Aziraphale’s free hand drifted up to encircle Crowley’s wrist, feeling his pulse hammering beneath his thumb as he encouraged him to bury his hand deeper into his curls. Feeling as though he had suitably encouraged his touch, Aziraphale released his wrist and moved his hand to run a thumb over Crowley’s lip, shivering as Crowley’s fingers tightened in his hair.

They both paused for a moment, realizing the next logical step and coming to terms with it. As they stared at each other, they both wordlessly confirmed that their thoughts on the matter were exactly the same.

_ Yes. Please. Finally. _

Aziraphale’s hand moved to cup Crowley’s jaw, his thumb ghosting over his cheek, as he leaned forward. They met in the middle. As was fitting. As they always did. 

It was a quick kiss, chaste, but as they pulled apart Aziraphale felt thousands of years of longing hit him with the force of a Bentley flying through central London at ninety miles per hour. Judging from the look on Crowley’s face, he was feeling much the same way. Not that Aziraphale got a particularly good look at him before he was kissing him again, much more insistently this time. 

He tasted of wine and want. Aziraphale had long been aware of his fondness for the former, but it was quickly being dwarfed by a new and electric feeling regarding the latter. 

Crowley’s fingers twisted against Aziraphale’s scalp and he made a noise that was completely unbecoming of an angel. Crowley gripped his hand tighter, squeezing before unlacing their fingers and bringing his hand up to cup the other side of Aziraphale’s face. 

Aziraphale’s freed hand moved up to Crowley’s waist, prompting him to bend his leg up, placing his newly unoccupied knee between the base of Aziraphale’s spine and the back of the couch. He twisted his body so that he was half-lying down, shoulders perched against the armrest and his back supported by a small pillow that Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure had been there earlier.

Aziraphale pulled back, stroking Crowley’s abdomen in a way which he hoped would stop any overthinking before it began.

“How should I…”

Crowley guided him onto his knees on the couch, bracketing him between his lean thighs and pulling him downwards onto him. As his weight settled onto Crowley, the demon let out a contented noise that made Aziraphale feel as though his heart were a rubber band that had just snapped.

He scarcely had time to recollect himself before Crowley’s hands were in his hair again and he was being pulled down into another kiss. His hand tightened on Crowley’s hip, fingers sinking into flesh, as his other hand skimmed down his neck.

He was so warm, and tangible, and tender. He felt like sunlight.

Aziraphale broke the kiss again to bury his face in Crowley’s neck, his hand moving across his shoulder and under his collar, undoing a couple buttons to ease his way and relishing in the little gasp that Crowley couldn’t catch before it left him. He left a trail of soft kisses down his neck and collarbone and back up again before licking right below his ear.

Crowley positively whimpered. One hand tangled in the curls at Aziraphale’s nape while the other slithered down his spine, tracing little serpents across his shoulder blades and the small of his back. It felt wonderful. Aziraphale wanted more, wanted to be able to feel how soft his fingertips were and how hot his skin was.

He pressed a final kiss to Crowley’s jugular and moved upwards to look at him. He was flushed, and his hair was disheveled, and he was smiling beautifully.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice even but slightly lower than usual, “Would it be alright with you if we were to, ah, shed a few layers?”

Crowley looked like he had just been given a gift. 

He also was suddenly not wearing a shirt. Aziraphale supposed that was a resounding yes, tracing his fingers reverently down Crowley’s chest and delighting in the way his breath caught in his throat. 

“Would you care to do mine too?”

Crowley’s fingers never left Aziraphale’s back as his waistcoat, shirt, bow tie, and undershirt appeared neatly folded on Crowley’s kitchen table. The feeling of Crowley’s hands against his bare skin felt like it might be the end of him, but of all the ways to go, he thought this one might be the least objectionable.

He leaned back down, reveling in the feeling of flesh against flesh, and pressed an open mouthed kiss to the hollow of Crowley’s throat that made him writhe. He followed it with an experimental scrape of teeth that made the demon’s hands stutter where they were tracing coiling tracks down his spine, his fingers curling and blunt nails scraping as he let out a noise that was absolutely wanton.

It was lovely. He did it again, selecting a spot at the base of Crowley’s neck and biting down, sucking a bruise into his skin as Crowley shuddered beneath him, his legs coming up to wrap around Aziraphale and pull him closer. He left a few more scattered marks across his neck and chest and collarbones before burying his face into the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply, suddenly overwhelmed by the volume of sensation he was feeling.

As though Crowley could sense it, he ran his palms soothingly up and down Aziraphale’s back, unhooking his legs from behind his torso and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Aziraphale lay there, trembling, the sheer amount of  _ touch _ he had just experienced catching up to him all at once. 

They lay like that for a while, Crowley’s hands continuing to give comfort as their breathing and heartbeats settled back down. After a long while, Aziraphale lifted his head and gazed at Crowley, who was looking at him with such fondness he felt as though he might shatter.

He leaned up and kissed him softly before returning his head to his chest and closing his eyes once more. Crowley let out a small hum that made Aziraphale’s heart swell and the words left him before he could do anything about it.

“I love you, you know.”

He didn’t even have to open his eyes to know that Crowley smiled.

He could hear it in his voice.

“I know.” He paused. “I love you, too.”

It was a good thing he wasn’t like other angels, Aziraphale thought. After all, angels didn’t touch, and Aziraphale found that he didn’t want to do much else, ever again.

That night, for the very first time, he slept.


End file.
